


Aptera

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Series: The Sirenusas [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blood, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Cannibalism, Darklock, M/M, Mycroft Meddles, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sirenlock, Sirens, Top Sherlock, bottomjohn, dark!Sherlock, implied John Watson/OFC - Freeform, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes out of town for a week and comes back to find John has acquired himself a girlfriend. Needless to say, Sherlock is less than pleased with this change and decides some retribution is in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aptera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [masked-alias (sherlocked_n_loaded)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_n_loaded/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Holmestice for [masked-alias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_n_loaded). Happy Holidays, my dear friend!
> 
> Heed the tags, please. Special thanks (and all the tea and cookies) to [patternofdefiance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance) for betaing.

 

 

The fading scent of ylang-ylang is the first thing that greets Sherlock when he enters the flat.  
  
It is accompanied by notes of orange, jasmine, and vanilla, and Sherlock’s mental perfume catalogue identifies the composition as Hermes 24 Faubourg. He closes the door behind himself and takes in the flat, finding no major alterations and John in his usual chair by the fireplace. Nothing appears to have been changed, but something _is_ different. Something about the atmosphere of 221b has been altered in the eight days he has been away.  
  
Anthea does not wear perfume, as it is profoundly irritating to Mycroft. Sherlock has similarly convinced Mrs. Hudson and John that odours not sanctioned by him are unwelcome in the flat, although he does need to remind them both periodically with a quickly hummed phrase of siren song.  
  
A potential client is the next suspect, but the answer is as clear as the sex-sated smile on John’s face as he turns and drops the book he is reading down into his lap.  
  
“How’d your trip go? I assume you caught Mycroft’s double agent.”  
  
Sherlock stalks forward and resists the urge to growl. “Who is she?”  
  
It’s not a question and John looks slightly affronted by his gruff tone. “Who?”  
  
“The woman you brought into this flat while I was gone. Who. Is. She.”  
  
“Uh, Leah? You can tell from just one look that I’ve got a girlfriend?”  
  
_A girlfriend._ Sherlock lowers his chin so that he is looking down on John, the rage and anger seething within him. In the few days he has been gone, John has gotten himself a girlfriend, despite the fact that John Watson is unequivocally and without any question 100% the property of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Siren songs do wear off over time. He learned that lesson when he was sent away to siren summer camp. But that John would shake off his directives to ignore all women (and men) and to refuse all attempts at courtship…that says something about John’s willpower. Or, maybe Sherlock has grown complacent. Either way, this represents a new challenge to their interaction, one that requires immediate corrective attention.  
  
“John,” growls Sherlock, violently peeling off his gloves. “You are to call this _Leah_ immediately and dissolve your association.”  
  
John frowns. “Um, no I won't, not at least without a good reason. Have you deduced something I don't want to know about?”  
  
The coat comes off next and is thrown carelessly across the room to his chair. “Hardly. Call her now.”  
  
“Or what? Sherlock, you can’t just go around ordering me how to conduct my personal life. It’s none of your business.” John gives him a pointed look that clearly says he is insulted by Sherlock’s bluntness, then moves the book away from his lap in obvious preparation to stand up and negate some of Sherlock’s looming.  
  
The song Sherlock produces is short but forceful. John, halfway to standing when Sherlock begins, freezes in place as a visible tremor runs through his body.  
  
Ordinarily, Sherlock revels in observing the progression of John’s fight. The fury in his eyes fading to compliance, the tightly pressed lips loosening and parting, the sharp inhalations slowing and deepening. But today he is furious and uninterested in resistance. He wants to bring John to heel, to punish him for his disloyalty, not enjoy watching him acquiesce.  
  
The moment the song is finished, John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. His clumsy fingers scroll through his contacts and press the call button. Sherlock sings a brief line of notes and John finishes standing and brings the mobile to his ear.  
  
“ _John! I didn’t expect to hear from you until later today. Not that I’m complaining.”_  
  
“Say it,” hisses Sherlock in a low voice.  
  
“It’s not going to work out between us,” says John, obediently.  
  
“ _Sorry?_ ”  
  
And then John blinks hard a couple of times and frowns, as if he is actually throwing off the siren song’s control. “Leah?”  
  
Sherlock nearly flinches. How is it that John has managed to resist him even now, after months of conditioning?  
  
It suddenly dawns on him that this has Mycroft’s invasive fingerprints all over it. Typical Mycroft - send Sherlock off on a mission to settle a favour, leaving unrestricted access to John. It is the simplest, most likely explanation, though this time it is obvious that Mycroft was just testing the limits of his influence. Next time he might actually attempt to convince John to leave him. Unacceptable. John is _his_. He is not to be shared or enjoyed by anyone else, nor manipulated into believing that he is free to pursue any passing female.  
  
Sherlock briefly chastises himself for not foreseeing this. Mycroft has never failed to make known his disapproval of Sherlock’s appropriation of John. But that he would go so far as to involve himself in his and John’s association is unforgivable. He clearly believes if he makes John more difficult to control, Sherlock will get frustrated or bored and finish the job.  
  
But just because Mycroft is averse to having to actually exercise a bit of effort to get what he wants, does not mean he has any right to strip Sherlock of something he has worked to get.  
  
“No, do it now.” Sherlock quickly repeats the middle phrases of the song, not even bothering to start softly and build.  
  
John’s eyes snap up to meet his and for a moment, Sherlock thinks that John is actually conscious of what he is doing. It sends a quiver of fear down Sherlock’s back - he has never not been completely in control after he sings, not since Victor. But John is doing it right now, resisting him to a degree that he might actually completely throw off the directives written into the song.  
  
Sherlock stops singing momentarily and watches John’s fingers tightening against the edges of the phone. A tinny, high-pitched nattering is coming from it, but John is completely focused on Sherlock.  
  
This cannot be. John is super-receptive to his song, so he should be under by now, not slowly regaining lucidity. Just what did Mycroft do to him? Sherlock needs to regain control of the situation, and quickly. Clearly finesse is required, not the usual brute force method he has employed in past - being excessively loud is not going to get him what he needs.  
  
So, Sherlock begins a gentle song, one with the same directive but presented with slightly different lyrics each time. This song’s verses rotate through in an unpredictable pattern, preventing John from blocking the message. He is not clever enough to adapt, won’t be able to do more than throw up a defence that handles one type of attack.  
  
The determination drains from John instantly. He stops looking Sherlock in the eye and refocuses on his mobile. “Sorry, Leah, but you and I just aren’t compatible.”  
  
“ _I…I don’t know what to say. We certainly seemed compatible last night and the nights before that. Did something happen that I should know about?”_  
  
“No. I should have told you that I was already spoken for.”  
  
“ _Wait, I was your something on the side? I thought you were a decent guy!_ ”  
  
Growing tired of this superfluous conversation, Sherlock signs another soft phrase.  
  
“I thought I knew what was best for me, but I was clearly wrong. Goodbye, Leah.” John presses the disconnect button before there can be any response and drops his arm to his side.  
  
Sherlock studies him, stepping closer and lifting John’s face with an ungentle finger on his chin. John’s pupils are blown and his mouth is softly parted. He appears to be ready for another command, open to Sherlock’s influence. Good. The new strategy appears to be effective for now - John is receptive like he should be.  
  
“Now that that’s through, I believe it is time to re-educate you on exactly to whom you belong.”  
  
John nods compliantly.  
  
“Crack the windows so I can be rid of that putrid smell, strip, and then follow me.” Sherlock pivots in place and stalks toward his bedroom, not even bothering to check that John is behind him.  
  
The bedroom is untouched, lacking the usual tells that Mycroft has been snooping. Sherlock removes his jacket and hangs it in his wardrobe. John enters, closes the door automatically, and then kneels in front of Sherlock, face inclined upward and receptive. He is naked, as directed.  
  
Excellent. Mycroft has not managed to ruin John completely. But that still does not change the fact that Sherlock is furious with John for his actions after his control was lifted. Time to verify that he has indeed regained control.  
  
“Undress me.”  
  
John unties Sherlock’s laces and removes his shoes one at a time, socks as well, when Sherlock lifts his feet. His trousers are next, John carefully unzipping the fly over Sherlock’s filling cock, then pulling them down and off. John stands to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, leaving the cuffs for last, then sliding the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms. Everything goes on the floor for now, but John will take care of it later.  
  
“Pants now. Take me out.” Sherlock commands.  
  
John returns to kneeling, then lifts the waistband of Sherlock’s black silk briefs and slides them down over his thighs. Sherlock uses John’s shoulder to brace himself as he steps out of them, then moves his hand to the top of John’s head. John looks up at him, eyes trusting, ready.  
  
“You know what to do.”  
  
John nods, lifting a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cock and leaning forward to let his mouth and tongue go to work on the skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs, on either side of his cock, and above it.  
  
There is a subcutaneous vein that runs along Sherlock’s bottom-most set of abdominals. John seems to particularly enjoy running his tongue along it prior to fellatio, despite not having been directed to do so. Sherlock often ponders just how aware John is during their exchanges - if any of his desire for Sherlock is genuine or merely the siren song directing him to comply.  
  
Part of Sherlock selfishly wants John to desire him fully. No siren song, no coercion. But it is a very small part of him, the rest easily recalling John’s adamant refusals that there is anything to be felt.  
  
Would the experience be any different for him if John was completely complicit? Sherlock dismisses the thought almost instantly - it would be impossible to run the experiment.  
  
“Tilt your head back.”  
  
John obeys, his mouth reflexively popping open, his throat lengthening. Without hesitation, Sherlock thrusts his cock inside, not stopping even when John gags and his eyes water in discomfort. This is John’s punishment for defying him, Mycroft’s influence be damned. John will take every centimetre of his cock and he will not complain, he will not flinch. And most importantly - John will not be allowed to come. He will not get to feel any pleasure tonight besides what is unavoidable due to physical response. This is about Sherlock and reasserting control, not John satisfying his libido. He clearly had no difficulties doing that while Sherlock was away.  
  
Just the thought of John being touched by and receiving positive stimulus from someone else is sufficient to reignite Sherlock’s fury. He withdraws his cock and then immediately slams it back into John’s mouth, barely giving John any time to breathe.  
  
“You will _never_ date anyone ever again,” he snarls, punctuating each successive statement with a thrust. “You will never engage in intercourse with anyone who is not me. You will never do anything Mycroft tells you. You are mine and you will always be mine. Never make the mistake of thinking otherwise again.”  
  
Tears are flowing freely from John’s eyes now. His complexion has significantly reddened, and Sherlock withdraws his cock for a moment to allow John to catch his breath so he does not pass out. The moment he appears recovered, Sherlock pushes back in and begins fucking John’s face with aborted thrusts that consistently hit the back of his throat. It’s time to be finished with this.  
  
His orgasm arrives quickly and is quite unsatisfying. He is still too furious, too distracted by Mycroft’s meddling to enjoy himself. John swallows his come, his tongue tense at the bottom of his mouth, likely trying to resist the urge to eject Sherlock’s cock.  
  
Frustrated, Sherlock pushes back on John’s head and glowers down at him. “Go lay on the bed. I don’t want to look at you right now.”  
  
John complies, looking slightly dazed. He rests on his back, feet oriented toward the door. Sherlock watches his body for a moment, takes in the relaxed muscles and relative ease with which he had complied throughout. It appears that whatever influence Mycroft had on John’s obedience was not lasting. Good - he would hate to have to erase the last eight days from John’s memory and risk damaging his mind.  
  
Sherlock sits down on the floor and leans his back against the bed. He rests his elbows on his spread knees and drops his chin to rest on his chest.  
  
He wants John to be defiant on his terms, not because it has been programmed into him by Mycroft. That would ruin the beauty of what they have. It _is_ different when it is John alone fighting Sherlock - that’s a game, that’s a challenge. This artificially-defiant behaviour holds the possibility of changing the status quo, something that Sherlock refuses to let happen. He has been happy with the way things have been lately, especially with the latest round of games they have been playing.  
  
It is one of his favourite things to watch John come back from the siren song’s influence, come back to himself and attempt to rationalize and reconcile the changes in his body. The innocence and ignorance is more than arousing. Several times Sherlock has indulged again immediately after he has just fucked John, completely turned on by the trust in John’s face when he surfaces from the song, looking to Sherlock to explain, to give him the story that will play in his mind as the rationale for the differences in the way his body feels.  
  
John should always be this way, always be receptive and open and waiting for Sherlock to tell him how to tie himself to the bed, how long to resist orgasm, how many lashes he is to receive from the riding crop. Those times are rare because Sherlock has to be careful with the marks he leaves, has to decide on plausible excuses for their existence before the session has already begun. He cannot risk Lestrade or Molly or any of the other imbeciles in their life discovering this and taking John away or locking him up.  
  
Mycroft would ensure that he would be released almost immediately, but there is no sense in inviting separation, as this latest development makes it clear that Mycroft will try to take John from him if he can. Mycroft must interpret the time and energy he is devoting to moulding John as compromising, otherwise he would not have involved himself in such a petty matter.  
  
He has more than once accused Sherlock of settling, of becoming complacent. Perhaps this is his attempt to teach Sherlock a lesson, to demonstrate that he still has growing to do, skills still to learn. Mycroft did always favour active teaching lessons – Sherlock supposes that years of being ignored and mocked when they both been younger had taught him the error of assuming Sherlock would listen to his endless nattering. Either way, Mycroft can go to hell, because Sherlock intends to learn how to reprogram John to the point that he will never even hear any other siren song but his.  
  
But first, he does want to finish punishing John for enjoying the sex he had with Lisa or whatever her name was. Mycroft may have helped to throw off Sherlock’s commands to never seek out sexual gratification from anyone but him, but he did not tell John to enjoy himself or put his cock where it did not belong.  
  
The whip or riding crop would leave damage that would fade in a matter a days. No, he needs something more permanent, more telling.  
  
Sherlock inhales sharply and lifts his head. A bite mark - the ultimate claim of ownership for sirens. Yes, that will be perfect. And it can serve an additional purpose - if for some reason he and John are separated, the mark will warn any other sirens (including Mycroft) that John is his and not to be touched. Past punishments for touching another siren’s meal have included having one’s vocal chords ripped out. Sherlock imagines how wonderful life would be if Mycroft no longer had the ability to speak and he smiles.  
  
Where to put the mark….that _is_ the question. John is smart enough to know what a human bite mark looks like, but Sherlock’s teeth grow marginally sharper when he sings in preparation for tearing the flesh of his meal, so he will be able to make the wound appear similar to an animal bite.  
  
It will need to go somewhere that cannot be observed easily. Sherlock stands and evaluates John’s body laid out before him. The obvious choice would be the inner thighs - it would put both a consumptive and sexual claim on John. But John would easily notice it there, be able to examine it closely and show it to others for discussion.  
  
Ah, obvious. Sherlock flips John, who is still slightly disoriented, and analytically scrutinizes the flesh of his arse. He instinctively baulks at the idea of marring one of the things he appreciates most about John, but then again, it might be quite lovely to feel that mark against his skin in the future. Sherlock imagines rubbing his cock into the slight divot his bite would create and shudders. Yes, perfect.  
  
And if John asks, which he undoubtedly will, it will be easy to say a dog or some other creature bit him during a case. He will also be less likely to discuss it with anyone else - what typical British male discusses the bite on his arse with a mate at the bar?  
  
Sherlock lowers his face to John’s arse and licks the skin to either side of his hole. He watches the furled flesh clench and then release and inhales deeply, enjoying the promise this moment holds.  
  
And then a lovely thought occurs to him - he can be ready for another session in a few minutes - would it not be an extraordinary experience to bite John and run his cock through his blood? He pulls away, thrilled with his brain’s genius today. In fact, the idea is so enormously satisfying that he knows he will not have very long to wait before he is ready to go through with his plan.  
  
But first - John must be cleaned. No sense in ruining him because of haste and poor sense. Sherlock leaves him arse-up on the bed and goes into the bathroom to retrieve the medical kit. He dumps the contents on the counter and sorts through until he finds the antiseptic wipes. The rest he swipes onto the floor - John can clean it up when he is no longer under the siren song’s directive.  
  
Sherlock returns to his bedroom and wipes where his mouth was moments before, using a new wipe for each pass. Then he wraps one around two fingers and plunges it into John’s arse. John jerks below him, the sting of the alcohol compounded by the sting of being penetrated without warning. Sherlock repeats this a few more times, waiting for John to slowly relax again, before grabbing another and cleaning his own cock, which has begun filling once again.  
  
When he is satisfied with his preparations, Sherlock lifts John’s hips and forces him into a kneeling position, ordering him to brace himself on his forearms. He gets onto the bed and once more places his mouth on John’s arse, gently nibbling the skin, testing the flesh to see how much pressure it will take from his jaw to pierce it.  
  
The first taste of blood is delicious. Sherlock resists the urge to lick it away, reminding himself that he will want there to be as much present as possible if he is going to fuck John using his own blood as lubricant. He moves his mouth a few centimetres closer to John’s hole and nibbles there, desperately wanting to bite down, but hesitant to end this moment.  
  
Beneath him, John lets out a groan, though if it is from pain or pleasure, Sherlock cannot tell. Doesn’t care, really. He is the only one who needs to be enjoying this right now - John already had his fun while he was away, didn’t he, and the anger swells again in Sherlock. It propels him to abruptly bite down hard at the spot he was worrying and jerk his head back, pulling a small chunk of skin and flesh away, leaving a nearly two centimetre wound.  
  
This time John’s exclamation is definitely from pain. Sherlock chews on the piece of John in his mouth, savouring the sweet flavour hidden behind the metallic taste of blood, the tender texture, not too tough or stringy. He swallows and craves more, but knows he cannot have it, at least not just yet, because there is blood oozing from John’s wound and Sherlock will not be denied this chance, this thing that is his right to take.  
  
He reaches out and gathers some of John’s blood on his fingers, smiling darkly at the way John flinches away slightly but does not break from the position that Sherlock has ordered him to maintain. The blood is vibrant red and smells delicious, and Sherlock once more has to quiet his baser instincts and slick up his cock instead of licking his fingers. He repeats this motion, revelling in the coating of blood that covers his cock so beautifully, the bit of John that now coats his body like paint on a canvas.  
  
Soon enough, he grows bored of this and shuffles forward so that his cock can rub against John’s arse. It’s as he hoped - his cock dips slightly inward when it runs across the bite mark, and the new sensation is beyond pleasurable. When the spot heals, it will be marvellous to suck on, Sherlock speculates, then moves his cock over so that he is ready to penetrate John, doing a cursory check to make sure things are wet enough, and transferring more blood until he is satisfied that it will be enjoyable for him to fuck John.  
  
The first inward thrust is euphoric. John is trembling below him, probably from the pain, probably not from shock just yet, since the bite is not that large and the blood he has lost is not significant enough to affect his body functions. There is a natural anti-coagulant in Sherlock’s saliva that will keep the blood flowing and his cock lubricated until John bleeds out, but he does not intend to kill John for his disloyalty. The anti-coagulant can be washed out of the wound when he is finished.  
  
Sherlock pushes all the way in, then pulls back out. He wants to run his cock through John’s wound once again, but the chances of infection will be greater if he does. So, he squeezes the area around John’s bite and watches as a fresh gush of blood spills out and runs down the crease, stopped by the presence of his cock, sucked into John’s hole when Sherlock presses back inside. The visual is enough to get Sherlock close, but the scent of blood and the lingering taste of John on his tongue, plus the knowledge that a piece of John has passed through his oesophagus and into his stomach is what overwhelms him, pushes him right up to the edge and then over. He has enjoyed sex with John ever since they began months ago, but tonight, tonight is something exceptionally special, and he feels his orgasm all the way to the roots of his teeth.  
  
When he has finished pumping his come into John, Sherlock reluctantly pulls out and examines his cock. There is a pleasing coating of blood and semen that he is already regretting having to wash away. He swipes a finger through it and brings it to his nose to smell it, then taste. Jon’s blood mostly overwhelms the overall experience, but there is an undercurrent of salt and sweat and musk. This is what he and John smell and taste like combined, this is their fragrance.  
  
As an afterthought, Sherlock grabs his mobile from the side table and takes a photo of his fluid-glazed cock, then another one of John’s new bite mark. Both will provide excellent masturbatory material in the future…and he can also utilize this as an opportunity to study how bite marks heal.  
  
He takes one last look at the mark and then reluctantly pulls John out of his kneel, then across the room and into the tub in the bathroom. Sherlock turns on the shower, puts John back in his kneeling position, and begins to gently wash the wound to remove the anticoagulants.  
  
There are lines of dried and drying blood where rivulets of it moved down John’s arse, over his perineum, and down along his cock. Sherlock still does not feel particularly inclined to grant John an orgasm this evening, but he does enjoy how John’s cock jumps in his hand when he grasps it to scrub away the dried blood. And John is more exhausted post-orgasm, which will lend further support to his fabricated story of an animal attack. He supposes he can lift the orgasm ban at this point, after John has brought him so much pleasure.  
  
Sherlock stands, pulling John with him, and has to drape John’s arms over his shoulders to properly access his cock. It is thick and warm in his hand, the foreskin moving easily as he cleans the blood away. John lets out a slow, sleepy moan and eventually comes in small pulses.  
  
The antiseptic spray and careful dressing he will apply to the area should prevent any infection from occurring, but he will need to monitor the location carefully for several weeks. Just imagining the smug look on Mycroft’s face if John were to become ill due to his bite is enough to make Sherlock want to retch. He _will_ protect what is his, from other sirens and from his own desires.  
  
John shows signs that he will be returning to himself soon as Sherlock turns off the water and pulls him from the shower. Sherlock dries him off and meticulously dress his wound, then carries him up to his bedroom and drops him onto his bed. John’s usual bedtime attire includes pants, so Sherlock carefully puts them on, then tucks John in.  
  
His cover story of a made-up client with a canine or other bite-y animal will be better received if John believes he took painkillers for the ‘animal’ bite, so Sherlock returns to the bathroom to shuffle through the supplies on the floor in order to find the strongest painkillers they have. He pokes them out of their foil packets and returns to John’s room with a cup of water. The emptied packets and cup go on the nightstand, the actual pills stay with him and are dumped in the rubbish bin downstairs. He wants John to feel the pain tonight.  
  
Sherlock retrieves his dressing gown, but does not remain in his room. He sits in his chair in the dark sitting room and catalogues every moment of tonight, from the moment he walked into the room and discovered John’s betrayal to leaving John in his room, none the wiser to what had happened. It had been a relatively satisfying evening. Certain parts he would like to reproduce (and will definitely revisit in his mind, repeatedly), but others were more than intolerable.  
  
He _will_ be having words with Mycroft.  
  
In the meantime, he will try not to remember exactly how succulent John’s flesh was on his tongue, the sensation of it sliding down his throat, blood still coating his teeth. This was a one-time thing, he reminds himself, not to be repeated until John has outlived his usefulness.  
  
But when he does…oh how lovely it will be.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Aptera means ‘featherless’.
> 
> Looks like this has become a series. Next part won't be up for a long while...plenty of podfic/other writing to catch up on in the meantime.


End file.
